


The Rules

by codenamecynic



Series: Little Things to Save Your Life [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 04:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamecynic/pseuds/codenamecynic
Summary: She can tag along for as long as she can keep up. The minute she falls behind, that’s it - he won’t give her a second thought, won’t listen for her over his shoulder, won’t stop, won’t look back. That’s the rule.





	The Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bettydice (BettyKnight)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BettyKnight/gifts), [Fionavar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionavar/gifts), [onemooncircles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemooncircles/gifts), [Dakoyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dakoyone/gifts).



> A story from the beginning of Katy and Harper's friendship, before they were really friends at all.

She can tag along for as long as she can keep up. The minute she falls behind, that’s it - he won’t give her a second thought, won’t listen for her over his shoulder, won’t stop, won’t look back. Those are the rules.

Ceitidh can wear herself out following in his footsteps for as long as she thinks she’s able, but in the end Harper will do as Harper always does. He’ll keep pushing, keep going, keep swimming forward like a shark because, no matter how much he wants to, he can’t go back.

There is nothing for him to go back to.

The thing about rules is that Harper isn’t particularly good at them. In fact, he’s the worst. He does what he wants, when he wants, with whom he wants, and that’s exactly how he likes it. 

That’s also exactly why he’s miserable. Nobody matters, and so he matters to no one. Nobody cares. He won’t let them; he doesn’t stick around.

But Ceitidh - _stupid name, Ceitidh, ridiculous_ \- she cares. He doesn’t really understand it - or maybe he understands it too well. She’s alone. She’s scared. She’s just one little fish in the big blue sea, and there are dark things in the water, always lurking underneath. Honestly he isn’t sure how she’s survived as long as she has, piss poor at earning coin but far too good at spending it, little hunger-hollowed cheeks accentuated with cosmetics stolen out of some whore’s pocketbook like she meant them to be that way, hem of her dress ragged, three inches in mud.

Fucking pathetic. Honestly, it’s so-

So-

Something. And he hates that he doesn’t know. Hates to be momentarily unsure, hates to feel anything because it just reminds him how deeply, how truly he hates himself, and the breadth of reasons why he deserves to feel that way. 

So why be nice. Why walk slow. Why not just slip away in the dead of night when her measly little fire has gone out on the periphery of his campsite and leave her to make her own way out of the woods.

Why the fuck indeed.

He’s stupid, but he’s always been stupid. And fuck the rules anyway.

*

It’s been raining for three days, and her shoes are not the kind meant for traveling. His pace is fast, unflinching in the weather he is accustomed to dealing with, and if she’s not blisters up to her ankles, he’ll eat his shirt. Still, she persists, keeps on after him, just a few steps behind. He’s taken to allowing that, her just out of his sight but well within earshot. She never shuts up, so when she’s breathing too hard to talk he knows he’s pushing her limits. 

It’s not kind, but then neither is he and sometimes he just has to. Has to hurt something before it hurts him first. Has to feel like he still has some power in the world, even if it’s just to throw something away before it’s taken from him.

That’s such a fucking dumb thing to do; it’s not like he doesn’t know that. The rain drives home the point, stinging him in the face, sharp and cold. Behind him Ceitidh slips and falls, gets up.

They should stop. They don’t. Ceitidh falls again.

The third time it happens, they’re descending a gravelly ridge near the bank of some swollen stream. He can hear the moment her feet go out from under her, hear the clatter of pebbles, the skid of her hands across the stones when she tries to catch herself and fails. This time, he hears her cry out. Just a little sound - _dismay_ \- and then a whimper - _pain_ \- and the quiet snuffling of someone trying to keep from sobbing outright.

She doesn’t get back up.

If she doesn’t get back up, he can go on without her. Those are the rules.

The rules.

Fuck it, he’s never been that good with rules.

When he turns around she looks up at him like maybe he’s going to murder her on the spot, all big green eyes and quivering chin. She’s soaked to the skin because _of course_ she doesn’t have a cloak, pale with cold, her exposed shins and the palms of her hands scraped and bleeding. She holds them shaking in her lap; just flesh-wounds, but she’s soft, not the kind to easily bear pain.

Or maybe he’s wrong. She’s made it this far. She’s still with him. That’s more than he can say for anyone else.

“Harper-” Her voice cracks on his name like she’s not sure whether to tell him to go on without her, or to break down and ask for help. 

Either way he shakes his head. “Enough, Ceitidh.”

“But-”

_“Enough.”_

She’s still looking at him with those wide, tear-filled eyes when he bends down to hook an arm around her back and beneath her knees and picks her up, grunting with the effort. The heaviest part about her is her dress; it sticks to his arms uncomfortably as he descends the rest of the embankment and carries her downstream to where a pool of slower-moving water has gathered, dammed behind stones. She won’t even put her arms around his neck, not even when his boots slide over mossy rock, and wouldn’t that just serve him right if he fell and landed both of them in the muck. But he doesn’t and she looks at him like he’s some kind of hero for _walking_ and it makes him want to set himself on fire.

They’ll need a fire. First things first though; he sets her down on a rock and lifts water in his cupped hands to wash the dirt and blood off of hers. Props her legs on his knees and unlaces her boots, washes her shins. Her feet are delicate and pale and much abused; he’ll have to get her proper shoes if they’re going to continue this, if she’s going to come with him, if she-

If she sticks around.

That assumes a lot: that he’ll manage to rein himself in, to stop being so much of an asshole so he doesn’t drive her off, that she won’t just get tired and go someplace else, someplace easier. It’s a lot to think about and a lot he can’t know, and he doesn’t realize she’s making those little sniffling noises again until he looks up and sees what remains of her too-heavy eye makeup disappearing down her cheeks.

She’s _crying_ and when she sees him looking she looks so embarrassed. 

He frowns. She cries harder.

“I’m sorr-”

“Enough.” And apparently it is, because all he can do is put his arms around her. He never has before, not for comfort, not for warmth or even for protection, but he holds her little body against his chest and lets her soak his shirt. Lets her sob herself out like she’s too brave to most of the time when he’s watching.

There’s no harm in weeping. He almost says it out loud but then he doesn’t really know if he believes that’s true, and right now he’d just maybe rather not lie. So he says nothing. But he doesn’t let her go either, not until the sobs have diminished into sniffles again, and she wipes her face without thinking about it straight across the center of his shirt.

“I can keep going,” she says, her voice so small, but determined all the same.

He shakes his head. “Tomorrow. It’ll all still be there tomorrow.”

And to hell with the rules.


End file.
